


Carry On

by Goldmonger



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22660324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldmonger/pseuds/Goldmonger
Summary: Dean shoots Jack.  Again.
Relationships: Castiel & Jack Kline
Comments: 12
Kudos: 50





	Carry On

There is no blood, but Sam is scrambling to grab at him like there is a wound to staunch. The world swirls around him in a wash of colour and movement and sensation, the ringing of the gunshot, the slamming of the door against a cabinet as Castiel lurches into the room, Sam’s too-close warmth and the smell of ozone. Dean, in a ready stance, lowering the gun now that his brother is in the line of fire. Jack feels light, like he’s drifting away, but the rising volume of agitated human voices snaps reality back like a taut elastic band.

“What the hell? What is wrong with you?”

“I saw him –,”

“Jack. Jack, are you all right?”

Castiel’s eyes are ice-blue and inches from his face, narrowed in anger that seems to be manifesting in a death-grip on Jack’s shoulder. It takes a moment to register that it’s not directed at him, but he’s nodding quickly anyway, as though he could be bruised.

“Sam wasn’t breathing properly. I was trying to make it better.” He holds up a hand, wiggles his fingers in a pantomime of imparting divine healing energy. The room had been dark and cold until he pushed veins of golden light into Sam’s congested chest, the lingering disease from Jack’s grandfather’s meddling blistering away in an amber glow, petty microscopic life-forms burning beneath the force of a star. He’d expected resistance, certainly something more malicious than a persistent strain of influenza, but it had been like wiping away cobwebs. Surprisingly simple, for a godly plague.

Sam rubs his throat absently, looking from Dean, to Jack, to Castiel, who fixes him with a thin-lipped glare, almost expectant. His back is to Dean, curved slightly over Jack where he’s sitting on the bed next to Sam, a very clear and solid bulwark against whatever weapon Dean decides to brandish next. It’s uncomfortable, the atmosphere, the healthful aura Jack had gathered having dissipated like smoke in the wind. Castiel’s fury is a palpable thing, almost crackling, to the effect that Jack wonders if he’ll glimpse the shadow of unfurling wings on the wall, or hear the rattling chords of his true voice.

“He was right on top of him,” Dean says, low enough to be a growl, though that’s the case for everything Dean says nowadays. “I couldn’t tell what he was doing.”

“You could have asked,” says Castiel, whip-sharp and sardonic, so different from his usual ambling, thoughtful self. Jack can feel the angelic healing grace pulse lazily into him from the vice still clamped on his shoulder, searching for an injury the same way Sam had frisked him for a lodged bullet. He doesn’t bother telling them that his powers wouldn’t allow something as pedestrian as a gun to hurt him now, knowing it wouldn’t actually do much to break the tension. His shirt is ragged over the heart, a frayed hole that exposes unblemished skin. Dean is an excellent marksman. Everyone in the room knows that there should be a corpse where Jack is, and there would be if he were anyone else.

“Yeah, well, that’s not really my style,” says Dean, a lame excuse that curdles in the air the moment it leaves his mouth. He presses ahead anyway. “I knew it would only distract him. He’s juiced, right?”

Castiel’s scowl darkens to something truly dangerous, and Jack realises that the wards on the bunker are the only thing keeping peals of thunderous and holy wrath from wrecking Sam’s bedroom. Sam himself seems to recognise this, taking his elbow as though to draw him away. Castiel remains still, implacable as stone.

“Cas, come on. We need to -,”

“I am going to stay here,” says Castiel, every syllable enunciated with deadly precision, “and protect Jack. I will leave when Jack leaves, and not before.” He turns to face Dean, and whatever expression is now twisting his face must be terrible, because Dean almost recoils, catching himself at the last moment, refusing to bend. The man who punched God. They’d all recounted the moment for Jack enough times, forcing jokes out of trauma like a ritual, but there had been truth to some of it, clearly. It isn’t until now that Jack experiences genuine awe, the set of Dean’s jaw a challenge to the entire universe.

“Do what you want,” says Dean. “Sam. Come here a sec.”

Sam’s fists are white at the knuckles, his complexion greying again despite Jack’s efforts. He’s not sick anymore, but he certainly looks it, teetering between Dean, and the cluster of apprehension that is Jack and Castiel, clinging to each other like limpets. Jack hadn’t even realised his hand had scrunched itself into Castiel’s coat at the waist, holding him there, the drowning to a buoy.

“Sam.”

It’s inexorable, the demand preceding the only logical next step, which is Sam following it back to Dean. They step out into the hallway, Sam gazing back at Jack sorrowfully, agonisingly, as though he’s straining to apologise. For what, Jack doesn’t know. He was the one tossing in bed, wheezing and flushed and in pain, lying to the others the way he couldn’t to Jack’s newly precise eye, his freshly discerning ear. Jack watches them disappear just as Dean’s fingers curl around his brother’s arm in a familiar gesture. He turns back to Castiel, whose head is bowed.

“It’s okay. I’m not hurt.”

“That’s good,” says Castiel, though he sounds unenthused, exhaustion a veritable roadmap across his vessel. Jimmy Novak was strong, but his body has by now weathered over a decade of cosmic attacks, the worst ones from the inside. The scars are in his lines, his stooped and weary spine, braced still in front of Jack. He’s a soldier standing down now that the threat has gone, no longer wired to blow. He rubs his forehead, an oddly human idiosyncrasy that amuses Jack, for some reason.

“This shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry.”

“Everyone seems sorry,” says Jack, then amends it. “Mostly everyone. I’m fine.”

“He could have killed you.” The Hunter. The man who killed Death, and the Devil, and landed a right hook on God, all because they dared to mess with Sam. Jack knows he should be annoyed, even scared, but he can’t wrestle it into being. He knows his job, and it’s to take over from someone who failed miserably at protecting people. He has to earn trust, whether new or old and beaten, before he inherits the kind of power that drove his grandfather insane.

“I’m not afraid of Dean,” says Jack. “Not because I don’t think he can’t kill me, though he can’t.” Castiel’s grin is lopsided and sad. “But because I know what he is. We both want the same thing. He just needs to get used to the idea.”

“I don’t want you to feel unwelcome here. It isn’t fair. What you have suffered…” Castiel’s voice goes grave, the slow grinding of gravel. “I hope you know, truly know, that I don’t blame you for what happened to Mary Winchester. None of that was your fault. Our negligence was the reason she died, and you took the collateral damage. Your mother gave me the responsibility of protecting you and I failed. I’m sorry for all of this, Jack. I’m sorry for this burden you must now bear.”

“I’m here, so you haven’t failed. And the burdens I take on are mine alone. My choice.” He fights a smile, bursting with the need to just make Castiel _understand_. He remembers his first days, tumbling into a bustling and busy world, everyone and everything so breakable and strange. There had been two gaps he’d felt the urge to fill, one shaped like his mother and one like an angel, his immense father, a light that shone brighter than the sun. He’d moulded himself in that image, even before he was born. Castiel and his vessel, human and not human, beautiful and broken and so revered by the woman bringing him to life that it saturated him as well, nascent cells and grace. He is enlightened now, both to his purpose and his history. How can he blame this brilliant being for the lashing fear of one dangerous hunter, never mind all the evils of Heaven and Hell? His real father, his one constant?

He reaches out, tugs at Castiel’s sleeve until he’s sitting on the bed next to him. He resists the urge to slide under his arm like a baby bird seeking shelter from the rain, reasoning that a new god should have more dignity than that. He settles for snagging another handful of the trench-coat.

“I know you’re capable, Jack,” Castiel says, once he’s readjusted his position on the bedspread. “But you’re not alone in this. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Thank you,” says Jack, and tries to flip the mood of the room. “Not that I need help. I’m wise now. I am two and three quarters, after all.”

Castiel sighs, and puts an arm around Jack’s shoulders. “Age is no indication of wisdom. You have much to learn yet.”

Jack figures that’s as much humour as he’s likely to get out of him, and shrugs his tacit agreement. He doesn’t need to be a genius to kill a coward like God anyway. He’s debating asking Castiel to join him for midnight cereal, since he was researching biblical lore instead of pointlessly trying to sleep when he slipped in to heal Sam – and he’s yearning to get back to it – when the deep timbre of the Winchesters’ arguing becomes loud enough that it’s impossible to ignore, even with Jack attempting to do so. He pictures weeks of this, months, and nearly groans in frustration.

“I should deal with this,” says Jack, getting to his feet. Castiel pauses to consider, then follows suit, keeping close as they head towards the kitchen, the source of the racket. Jack can tell his urge to huddle away in a place where it’s just the two of them is warring with the need to confront Dean, and the prospect of the latter is teasing that indecision into distress.

They arrive into the kitchen to see Sam lecturing and pacing in front of Dean, who is leaning against the trestle table in a near perfect display of nonchalance. To anyone who knows him, of course, the tension radiates in waves.

“Enough,” says Jack, the word cutting through Sam’s diatribe abruptly. He swings around, hands on hips, looking drained and ruffled, like his flu had been parasitic in nature. His stress incites a pang of sympathy somewhere deep inside Jack, and in his periphery he can see Castiel tip forward slightly on his toes, as though a similar desire to heal him again had swept through the pair of them. It’s almost funny, Jack thinks, the borderline violent compulsion they all have to protect Sam. It makes Dean’s paranoia seem baldly cruel under the cool overhead lights, and the bags under their eyes and the hunch to their posture is stark at 3am, dispelling the idea that they have the luxury of fighting amongst themselves anyway when an enemy greater than any monster on any world in existence lurks just around the corner. Jack steps closer, watches Dean stand up straight, arms folded tightly.

“Jack, I’m sorry this happened,” says Sam, white with worry, his t-shirt still damp with sweat from the fever. His hands are curled in the same fists, his breathing hitched like he’d only just about stopped himself from roaring at Dean.

“Don’t be sorry,” says Jack. Everyone’s sorry, he wants to proclaim again, annoyed this time, then lands on Dean’s averted gaze, his pursed lips.

_Mostly everyone._

“Dean,” he says stolidly, letting the word sit for a minute before ploughing on. Better to just take the plunge. They can’t defeat God if they’re splitting at the seams like this. “Do you really think I’d hurt Sam?”

“I don’t know,” says Dean, and the worst part is that Jack believes him, the steel behind the mantle that Jack can see is just as worn as Castiel, as Sam. Dean has one prerogative, the same one he’s had since he was a child, and Jack has proven himself to be a lethal force. It doesn’t matter that he was soulless, that he was manipulated or alone. He thinks all that Dean can see is another yellow-eyed creature that killed his mother, that hovered over his brother.

“Well,” says Jack, holding up a hand to stall Sam’s outraged retort, “you’d better figure it out, because my grandfather wants all of us dead. In creative ways.” He ponders this. “Or extremely clichéd ways, now that I think about it. In any case, the only thing that’s going to take him down is a unified front. It’s going to be a bother if I have to watch out for you trying to kill me too.”

Dean’s arms relax, fractionally. He sits back against the table.

“I don’t want to kill you, kid.”

“But you still don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust anyone. Don’t take it personally.” He crosses one leg over the other. “I didn’t get up for a piss intending on gunning for you. I saw a glow coming from Sammy’s room, and you in there, after you’ve been eating hearts -,”

“He explained that,” grumbles Castiel, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Sure, like it’s not still weird as shit. Anyway, it was a reflex. I knew it would only distract you at most, if that.”

Jack tilts his head to the side, scrutinising him. “You don’t hate me?”

It’s a legitimate question, one that’s been stewing since he was a day old and orphaned. He doesn’t expect Sam’s expression to crumple, or Castiel’s whisper of escaping breath, another example of useless human mimicry that causes a surge of affection within him for the fallen, falling angel. Dean is gaping at him, surprise morphing quickly to exasperation, that tiredness again like a toxin, terminally working its way through him, through all of them.

“Jesus. Of course I don’t.”

“Good,” says Jack quietly. “That’s good.” It’s bizarre. He knows, instinctively, that Dean would die for him, knows that somewhere in that booze-soaked, battered body there’s a paternal identity that came into being around the same time Sam declared him worth saving. It’s not unconditional, like Castiel’s, nor is it the simple, generous love that Sam poured out when he needed it most, but it’s what Dean can muster. It’s what he has left, after what his father took, his mother, the many dead friends that Jack will never know about. It’s an imprint of his tumultuous friendship with Castiel. It’s the scree that tumbled off the mountain that hoards his loyalty to Sam.

“You’re one of us, Jack,” says Sam now, kind, reassuring and grieving still. “What happened in the past is going to stay in the past. Don’t ever forget that. I’ll remind anyone who does,” he adds, glaring behind him to Dean, who snorts.

“This will not happen again, Dean,” Castiel reiterates, some of his holy wrath returning. “I mean it. We have bigger problems than your insecurities. All our focus must be on stopping Chuck.”

“I know that,” Dean snaps back. “Believe me, I’m sick of that little prick. Just don’t ask me to turn off my weirdness radar. It won’t go well for any of you.”

Sam catches Dean’s eye again, exchanges some form of the nonverbal communication that must have been honed over several decades of living in each other’s pockets. Dean grunts, angles his glower in Jack’s direction. “I’m sorry for shooting you.” He takes a beat, a crease forming on his brow. “This time. I hope I don’t need to do it again.”

“Thanks,” says Jack, even though Castiel looks murderous and Sam is dragging a hand over his face. It’s as good as a Dean apology ever gets, if it gets spoken aloud at all. “I’m okay, after all, and I’m glad you’re looking out for Sam.”

It’s another comment that gets a subtle reaction from all of them, though Dean’s direct nod is the only one that really matters to Jack at the moment. _Always will_ , he could have said, or _don’t you forget it_ , or maybe something more veiled in threats, though the wind seems to have been taken out of his sails in that department. The toxin is pumping, wearing them down when they’re not fighting or killing or saving.

He drifts towards his brother as Jack turns around to go back to his room, to the research into God-murder and divine ascension, to the scattered headphones and records and comic books that seem so childish now, in the grand scope of things. Dean starts berating Sam for not informing him about his flu, and Sam jabs back about some cracked rib from a werewolf luchador that Dean kept hidden for days. It’s a familiar routine, has been since Jack has known them, and any lingering resentment he may have had over his torn shirt or tenuous trust trickles away as he trails Castiel back down the hall, as he discusses his work and accepts Castiel’s offer of help.

Much later, when Sam and Castiel take the afternoon to buy food that hasn’t been destroyed by the effects of God’s klutz curse, Dean slumps down opposite Jack in the library, rolling over a beer.

“To the mission,” he says, popping the lid off his own and taking a swig. He was calmer in the dark, Jack thinks: the immaculately aimed gun, the steady trigger-finger, the twanging thread that connects him to his brother alerting him to Jack’s presence, so swift and silent. The dark is comfortable for him, so much that he thinks he will always belong in the shadows. It draws to mind Sam, his permanent frown and endless concern, and Castiel, bent and weary and tired of rage. They will continue to fight, Jack is certain of that much, but behind it all is the shade of resignation, of a need for it to be over – this nightmare, this endless war.

Jack clears his throat, lifts his bottle.

“And to everything that comes after,” he says, copying Dean’s motion, tasting every molecule of the cheap alcohol as it rushes down his throat. He misses Dean’s quirked lip, but notes the determination with which he downs the rest of the beer.

_To everything that comes after_ , Jack thinks. _To whatever is left._

**Author's Note:**

> *
> 
> I just think we don't talk enough about the fact that Dean was prepared to execute the kid he helped raise even though the only reason Jack killed Mary was because he was soulless and he was only soulless because he saved Sam and Cas............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................but that's just me


End file.
